


in keeping with tradition

by Phoenix_Soar



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Sex, Ancient Rome, Angel/Demon Relationship, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley invented the New Year's kiss tradition as an excuse to kiss Aziraphale, Hand Feeding, Historical Accuracy, Historical Inaccuracy, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Inspired by Twitter, Kissing, M/M, New Year's Eve, New Year's Kiss, Pillow Principality Aziraphale (Good Omens), Porn with Feelings, Saturnalia, Scene: Rome 41 AD (Good Omens), Service Top Crowley (Good Omens), Shameless Smut, Top Crowley (Good Omens), Winter Solstice, yes they both apply
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:47:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27566254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenix_Soar/pseuds/Phoenix_Soar
Summary: Running into Aziraphale in Rome during the notoriously debauched Festival of Saturnalia gives Crowley the chance he's hardly dared to dream ofORCrowley accidentally invented the New Year's Kiss tradition as an excuse to kiss Aziraphale
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 79
Kudos: 419
Collections: Best Aziraphale and Crowley, British Angels and Demons, Ixnael’s Recommendations, Our Own Side, Shinbi34's Recommendations, Top Crowley Library





	in keeping with tradition

**Author's Note:**

> This fic exists because of this [thread on Twitter](https://twitter.com/starrysheen/status/1326757398371946496), where a bunch of us lost our minds when we found out that some historians traced the origins of the New Year's Kiss tradition to Ancient Rome and the Festival of Saturnalia. I have never reached for my laptop so fast in my life
> 
> I intended to write a cute little ~2k but then this fic became a way to make everything about Saturnalia into a feelsy ineffable romance. Don't worry tho, you don't have to know the history to understand what's going on ^^
> 
> Shoutout to Az, Courtney and Beana on Twitter, who are the reason this fic came to life. And also why my plan to keep this PG was completely [derailed](https://twitter.com/starrysheen/status/1326759824265195522).

On the fourth night before the Winter Solstice, the din of drunken revelry permeates every street in the city. Raucous laughter, salacious songs and eulogies to Saturnus resonate all the way up to the palace.

Up on a balcony tucked in a corner, however, the noise of the ongoing celebrations isn’t as tumultuous. A rare sense of tranquility lingers here, where an Angel leans against the parapet, gazing out across the lush sprawling gardens.

Unbeknownst to him, a figure swathed in dark emerges from the shadowy doorway behind him.

Crowley waits until he is looking over Aziraphale’s left shoulder before he remarks, ‘They say you shouldn’t be alone during the most joyous festival of the year, that too on the final night.’

His lips quirk with mischief and satisfaction when Aziraphale, atypically, starts at the sound of his voice.

A longstanding tradition, the thrill of sneaking up on Aziraphale has never lost its lustre - and per what has recently become the norm, Aziraphale’s surprise settles into a smile upon recognising his company.

‘Crowley,’ he greets, his voice warm enough to chase the winter chill out of Crowley’s bones.

The torches on this out-of-the-way balcony in the palace are unlit, leaving the Angel bathed only in the night’s ambiance. The moon is near full, and the way its rays catch in Aziraphale’s fair curls and pale skin softens his already gentle features.

His blue eyes sparkle at Crowley, an effect of the moonlight. Or simply with joy, perhaps.

Crowley clears his throat. He leans against the parapet next to Aziraphale, affecting detachment as he looks out across the grounds.

Although it’s quieter back here, the area is not deserted. The palace slaves are taking full advantage of the Festival of Saturnalia, enjoying the temporary status of being free men and women. Crowley spots a few of them below, with felt caps signifying freedom perched on their heads; nearly all are drinking the wines generally reserved for their masters, and farther away at the back, there is a group gathered around what sounds like a rambunctious game of dice.

Most of them, however, are on the streets with the rest of Rome, feasting and drinking and singing.

‘So why aren’t you out there?’ Crowley says to Aziraphale, nodding in the general direction of the city centre. ‘All those parties and merrymaking and you’re,’ Crowley’s gaze lands on the goblet of red wine in Aziraphale’s hand, ‘having a pity party by yourself?’

‘What makes you think this is pitiful?’ Aziraphale raises his eyebrows in challenge, but his expression is one of amusement. ‘After the energy of these past few days, I am perfectly content to enjoy a little breather.’

‘Sick of all the debauchery, then?’ Crowley says, teasing.

His grin widens at the flush rising about Aziraphale’s neck and cheeks, obvious even in the moonlight.

‘It - it’s not really my scene,’ Aziraphale says, taking a hasty sip of his wine. ‘Bit mind-boggling, really. The Romans are usually so strict about their dress, but come winter solstice…’ Here, Aziraphale’s gaze locks on Crowley, seeming to notice for the first time that the Demon is wearing not his customary black toga but -

‘Is that a synthesis?’ Aziraphale eyes the stylish dinner clothes, raising his eyebrows at the dark garnet tunic Crowley has paired with his black robes. ‘Looks expensive.’

‘’Course. Where’ve _you_ been, angel? Everyone’s wearing these for the festival.’

‘Yes, well.’ Aziraphale sniffs, smoothing a defensive hand over the folds of his white toga.

‘If ya ask me, the Romans should just wear these all the time. Can finally get a breeze up my legs. Togas are a pain in the arse.’

‘Didn’t _you_ have a hand in inventing the overall style? Last time at Petronius’, you were telling me about the low-grade evil that cumbersome clothes inspire.’

Crowley blinks, racking his memories. They are rather wine-soaked. ‘Hrrgh … huh … you’re right! Fucking heaven, that was _me_!’

Aziraphale purses his lips, poorly hiding a smirk as Crowley gapes at Aziraphale’s toga.

‘Well, whatever the garment, they tend to come off during Saturnalia, don’t they? Yesterday I passed a group singing in the nude while their audience showered them in nuts and wine.’

‘Is that _all_ you passed by?’ Crowley teases, bouncing back from unpacking his apparel-related atrocity. ‘I’ve been passing people of all sorts spread like cheese on -’

‘Yes, that as well,’ Aziraphale interrupts a little too loudly, raising his goblet. His cheeks are reddening again.

Crowley snickers, tilting his head to leer at the Angel. ‘Ehh, don’t blame ’em for embodying the spirit of the holiday.’

‘What, liberation?’ Aziraphale gives a quiet chuckle. ‘It was interesting, I admit, their ritual of loosening the bonds around Saturnus’ feet. Liberate a god - or I should say, a statue - and enjoy liberation oneself.’

‘Aziraphale,’ Crowley drawls out his name, leaning towards the Angel with a shit-eating grin. ‘Don’t tell me _you_ attended the Temple on the first day? Bit heretic for an Angel of the Lord, innit?’

‘It’s not as if I were condoning the worship of other deities, it was just a public event,’ Aziraphale retorts. ‘Besides, they throw a most sumptuous banquet afterwards and -’ Crowley’s grin broadens as Aziraphale pinks again. ‘I mean…’

‘The banquets _are_ lavish, aren’t they,’ Crowley murmurs, leaning closer to Aziraphale again. Turning to face him, he leans his hip against the parapet, crossing his arms. ‘Almost immoral, one might say.’

‘Crowley…’

‘They’re still ongoing. I thought you’d be at one, tonight being the last and all. Or at the baths even. Bunch of literary bores are down there, throwin’ around questions about the ancient poets. Heard they were gonna dedicate a crown of laurels to Saturnus if no one got an answer right. I thought that’d tickle your fancy; bet you could’ve slaughtered ’em all.’

Aziraphale stares at him, lowering his goblet to the parapet.

‘I … thank you, I suppose,’ he begins slowly. ‘And … _you_ went to a literary game at the baths to … you were looking for me?’

‘Unh…’ Crowley fidgets, averting his gaze. Caught up in their conversation and banter, he’d almost forgotten why he’s sought Aziraphale out tonight.

The silence drags on and Aziraphale looks back out over the balcony, flushed. ‘I - right, well … it’s not _really_ the last night of the festival though, is it? I know the Emperor declared only five days, but they always celebrate for a full week anyway.’

‘It is the last night, for me.’

Aziraphale looks round quickly, jaw slack. ‘Do you mean -?’

‘Told you, didn’t it?’ Crowley shrugs. ‘Only here for a quick temptation. Whisper in Caligula’s wax-stuffed ears for a couple months and I’m out.’

‘Oh!’ Aziraphale looks down, holding the goblet tightly in both hands. ‘I … my work with Nero will go on for a bit.’ Biting his lower lip, he murmurs, ‘Must you - must you leave immediately?’

Crowley puffs out his cheeks to hide his flustered and pleased reaction to Aziraphale’s dismay. ‘Wasn’t gonna, but duty calls.’

‘I see. Where are they sending you? I mean -’ Aziraphale adds hastily, ‘that’s probably need-to-know information -’

‘Egypt. Gotta ruffle some feathers between here and there.’

‘They’re already a Roman province.’

‘And they don’t like it, don’t they. Easy enough to raise a few hackles.’ Crowley looks up at the moon, adding nonchalantly, ‘Any chance of seeing you down there after you teach that brat to bang a tympanum -?’

‘I was thinking the cithara, and no, I mean …’ Aziraphale peers up at him. ‘I don’t yet know where I am to be sent next.’

‘Ah.’

Silence descends upon them again, broken only by the distant sounds of celebration.

‘Did you come find me to say farewell?’ Aziraphale asks very softly.

‘Ngh.’ Crowley runs a hand through his hair, wincing when his fingers catch on his silver laurels. ‘Figured I’d treat you to dinner. Owe you for Petronius, don’t I?’

‘The feasts are free,’ Aziraphale points out. ‘And you hardly touched an oyster last time.’

Crowley’s face flames at the memory. Wonder why that was, he thinks to himself, hastily pushing down memories of pink lips wrapping around oyster shells and the titillating moans that accompanied each.

There is a good reason why his memories of that particular lunch are doused in liquor.

‘Eh, wine flows freely at the feasts too. ’S enough for me.’

‘Oh. Right, well, if you’d like for us to head into the city,’ Aziraphale begins, straightening up.

Crowley looks at him, thinking of how serene the Angel had looked when he found him here, tucked away from all the pandemonium.

‘Or we can eat here,’ Crowley says without thinking. ‘Sod the feasts.’

Before Aziraphale can ask, Crowley snaps his fingers, manifesting a plate of food on the parapet. The Angel widens his eyes at the small mountain of figs, dates and nuts.

‘Oh, Crowley, this is lovely of you,’ Aziraphale ignores the sound of protest Crowley makes, ‘but miracled food never tastes the same.’

‘I didn’t create them outta nothing,’ Crowley says. ‘Give me some credit here, Aziraphale, I know how anal you are about food.’

‘I am not -!’ Aziraphale’s sensibilities are rightly affronted by the term.

‘Nicked the plate from the palace dining hall.’

‘Crowley!’ Aziraphale chides him.

‘It won’t be missed. Caligula has enough to stuff his face with.’ Crowley rolls his eyes. ‘And I don’t mean just food.’

Crowley has the pleasure of watching Aziraphale blush again at the implications. But it’s not until he says placatingly, ‘Think of it this way, angel, if you’d attended tonight, this plate would’ve been yours’, that Aziraphale relents and picks up a date.

‘It’s dried,’ he observes, squishing the sticky fruit between a thumb and forefinger.

‘Not to your taste?’ Crowley raises a hand to snap again. ‘I’m sure they have ripe ones -’

‘It’s perfectly all right,’ Aziraphale assures him with a swift smile. ‘They’re sweeter when raw and ripe, but,’ he slides a date into his mouth, chewing carefully; puckering up his lips, he delicately pops out the pit which he places aside on the plate, ‘ _mmm_ , they’re scrummy like this, too.’

The whole time, Crowley gawps at him, mouth growing dryer by the second. ‘Right,’ he croaks. ‘Glad it’s to your liking.’

‘You must try one!’ Aziraphale turns to him with the same exuberance he’d displayed back in Petronius’ restaurant, offering oysters as if he’d not just scrambled every thought in Crowley’s head with a positively lewd display.

‘’M good,’ Crowley says quickly, resting his elbows to fold his arms on the cool parapet. ‘You enjoy those.’

‘Are you certain?’ Aziraphale tries a fig next, giving another satisfied little moan and smacking his lips. ‘These are absolutely divine.’

‘All the more reason for me to avoid.’

‘Oh, you silly thing, you know that was a figure of speech!’

Crowley hums noncommittally, pushing his small tinted eyeglasses higher up his nose. He faces straight ahead, trying to focus on the gardens and the moon shining benignly down on them; but as Aziraphale tucks in, his eyes inevitably slide back to the Angel.

Aziraphale is sampling the offerings with utter delight, savouring each and every nibble. Crowley is glad for the assorted nuts in the mix; it allows him tiny respites, Aziraphale’s enjoyment of them not being as arousing. But he finds himself losing his breath otherwise, especially each time the Angel takes a date; the dried fruit is chewy and Aziraphale takes his time with them, pursing his lips at the end to pop out the pits. He does so with a soft smack each time, humming with pleasure.

Crowley stares at his puckered lips and it’s impossible not to fantasise them pressing against his.

If that isn’t bad enough, the dates leave sticky residue on Aziraphale’s fingers and Crowley thinks he will discorporate when Aziraphale slips them into his mouth. His pink tongue pokes out, and Crowley suppresses a shudder when the Angel sucks his thumb clean, pulling off with another wet _pop_.

Heavens blessed. This is almost worse than the oysters, Crowley thinks wildly, his cheeks so hot he fears his face will shrivel up.

Does Aziraphale have no idea what he’s actually doing?

There is a burst of drunken laughter from below as two people, one looking to be chasing the other, run off into the darkness. None of it registers for Crowley.

He realises he’s abandoned his pretence of not-looking when Aziraphale catches him very blatantly looking. Smiling, Aziraphale holds out a dried date.

‘Go ahead, dear boy, and try one. I gather culinary adventures are not for you, but you seem curious about sampling these.’

It’s not the fruit I want to sample, Crowley almost says out loud, clenching his jaw shut.

His gaze slides from the date, daintily held between three fingers, to the Angel’s mouth. Even in the low light, his lips glisten, freshly licked clean of fruit and wine by that enticing tongue.

Crowley imagines what it would feel like against his, inside his mouth, between his teeth.

Countless times over the millennia has Crowley harboured certain thoughts about Aziraphale, but this encounter in Rome in particular seems designed to drive Crowley out of his senses.

‘It is part of the tradition here, did you know,’ Aziraphale is suddenly saying, glancing over the parapet again. His fair skin betrays the heightening colour of his cheeks. ‘Exchanging gifts and sharing food during the festival.’

Crowley raises an eyebrow. ‘Well,’ he drawls, ‘can’t compromise tradition, can we?’

Still leaning on his elbows, Crowley leans to his right, tilting his head to accept the proffered date. There is a sharp intake of breath, and Crowley stills, eyes widening -

He hasn’t been thinking - well, of course not, all such ability having abandoned him sometime ago - but it’s all a bit late to be backing off now.

Crowley closes his mouth over the date, his lips covering the tips of Aziraphale’s fingers, and the Angel is frozen, looking down at him in shocked silence. Crowley sucks lightly and Aziraphale gives a barely audible gasp, loosening his grip on the date; it slides into Crowley’s mouth but he dares to linger for a second, kissing Aziraphale’s sticky fingertips before drawing back.

Aziraphale leaves his hand suspended in mid-air, watching Crowley chew. The dried fruit is sweet, quite pleasantly so Crowley finds, and he wonders about its taste on Aziraphale’s tongue as he sinks his teeth in to separate the soft flesh from the oblong pit inside. He spits the seed carelessly over the parapet, not looking away from Aziraphale.

It’s only after Crowley swallows that Aziraphale speaks again. ‘How was it then?’ His voice is higher than normal.

‘Sweet.’

‘Yes -’

‘Sticky.’

Aziraphale presses the tips of his fingers together, feeling the residue between them. ‘Quite right. It’s a bit of a messy business, but the taste makes up for it.’

Then he raises his hand and Crowley watches, stunned, as Aziraphale sucks clean the very fingers Crowley had in his mouth not a minute ago.

‘Fucking heaven, angel,’ he rasps.

‘Oh,’ Aziraphale whispers, eyes widening with realisation. ‘I…’

Crowley feels the tension, the familiar shift in the wind that often arises between them; irrefutably present and hardly ever acknowledged. Aziraphale meets his gaze, and despite his obvious mortification, doesn’t look away. His piercing eyes find Crowley’s dead-on, even through the barrier presented by the eyeglasses, and Crowley can think of little else but the countless meetings they have had since the very beginning.

Every time he has looked at Aziraphale and seen no one else.

Every time Aziraphale has looked back.

Just as he is now.

Swallowing thickly, Crowley straightens, turning to face Aziraphale fully. They are so close he can feel the warmth of the Angel’s human corporation, welcome in the winter night.

‘Crowley, I …’ Aziraphale clutches his wine goblet so hard it trembles, but he doesn’t draw away as Crowley crowds him up against the parapet. ‘What are you doing?’

Crowley licks his lips, his thoughts whirling. There is a corner of his mind warning this might be a bad idea, but louder still are the emotions in Aziraphale’s eyes, speaking of both nerves and excitement.

Desire. Shuttered behind the boundaries Aziraphale adheres to, yes, but unmistakeable.

Crowley throws caution to the wind.

'Speaking of gift giving and food, d’you know the Romans have another tradition to ring in the new year on Winter Solstice?’

‘They do?’ Aziraphale whispers.

‘Mm hmm.’

Crowley moves closer, his synthesis brushing against the folds of Aziraphale’s toga as he plants his hands on the parapet, on either side of Aziraphale’s hips.

‘They make a little display of affection, for an auspicious beginning to a year filled with joy and … _companionship_.’ Crowley is speaking the first words that come to mind, letting them spill before his nerves shut him up for good.

‘A display of affection,’ Aziraphale repeats. His wine goblet is held between their chests, a final wall. ‘And what more can possibly be done, pray tell, after a full of week of … debauchery?’

‘Debauchery is for the festival, angel. The solstice, the new year … that’s different.’

‘Quite.’ Aziraphale swallows. With the moon now at his back, his eyes are shadowed but Crowley can see every shifting detail in the blue of them. ‘And? What do they do?’

Crowley’s eyes shift to Aziraphale’s mouth, soft and inviting and, he imagines, sticky now with fruity sweetness.

He blurts it out before every good sense can stop him, ‘A kiss.’

A cool breeze ruffles Aziraphale’s curls, glowing silver in the moonlight. The silence soaks into Crowley like dread, and he considers leaving. He has lied through his teeth and completely and irrevocably overstepped.

But then there is a soft exhale. Aziraphale’s eyes, wide and brimming with unspoken feeling, dip to focus on Crowley’s mouth, hovering inches from his. The hand wielding the goblet moves aside, removing that final barrier between them.

‘Well, if it is human tradition,’ Aziraphale murmurs, ‘and we are to blend among them when in Rome…’

Oh, Crowley thinks, feeling like the breath has been punched out of him.

He holds Aziraphale’s gaze for only a moment more before he acts, instinct and desire and the explicit permission tugging him forward until warm breath is mingling with his - their lips meet.

It is the softest of touches, featherlight and so precious that Crowley feels like his chest will collapse under the sheer weight of it. Aziraphale’s lips are petal-soft and delicate, and Crowley fears he will break him with a single misplaced touch.

Trembling, he begins to draw away, but there is a hand fisting the garnet fabric over his chest; then Aziraphale is pressing closer, pressing his lips fully against Crowley’s, pressing the length of his body against Crowley’s, and he burns like a furnace, like a star, pouring warmth and light into a starving Demon who trembles from more than just the wintry cold.

With a soft gasp, Crowley gives in, pushing back until Aziraphale is leaning against the parapet, trapped between flesh and stone. The Angel’s lips part under his and Crowley dutifully pays attention to each, kissing and sucking sweetly on the upper one, biting and tugging longingly on the lower, and tasting it all with slow, greedy swipes of his tongue.

Aziraphale tastes sugary and sticky from the dates and figs, just like Crowley has imagined, but underneath lingers an indescribable flavour all his own that immediately seals Crowley’s new addiction. He whimpers, the sound sweet and desperate, as Crowley slips his tongue between his lips, chasing the taste of him inside his mouth.

The first brush of their tongues against each other makes Aziraphale moan, sending shivers down Crowley’s spine because this is exactly how Aziraphale sounds, savouring dried dates and briny oysters. And just like the first time, it makes Crowley think of Aziraphale and soft feather beds, to have his warm body writhing under him and those tantalising sounds sung in his ear.

Heat begins to pool in his gut, hardening him under his robes. With a wanton groan, Crowley slides his long tongue over Aziraphale’s, teasing and coaxing it into his own mouth. Aziraphale follows his lead, licking eagerly into him and Crowley catches him between his teeth and _sucks_ -

Aziraphale gasps, jumping in surprise and breaking away. His goblet tilts from the abrupt movement, sloshing wine all over.

Crowley grabs him by the wrist on instinct, righting his hand. The goblet is nearly empty, mere sips of wine left. The spilt liquid drips off Aziraphale’s fingers.

Crowley hesitates only a moment before he tugs Aziraphale’s hand to his mouth. The Angel exhales sharply at the touch of Crowley’s tongue over his knuckles, licking up the wine. Crowley looks up, waiting for a rejection; there is none forthcoming.

With a hum, he closes his eyes, tracing the path of the sweet liquid over Aziraphale’s warm fingers and down to his stained wrist. A soft shudder displaces the quiet as Crowley licks over the delicate skin, just under Aziraphale’s palm; his lips come to rest over his pulse, racing and speaking volumes more than any words could have in that instant.

Looking up, Crowley reads the clear yearning written on Aziraphale’s countenance, for once completely unveiled to him. Crowley leaves another open-mouthed kiss on Aziraphale’s wrist.

His own decorative heart frantic in his chest, Crowley pulls on Aziraphale’s hand, guiding the goblet to his lips. Without a word, Aziraphale tips it, emptying the last of the wine into Crowley’s mouth. It is cloyingly sweet, as Roman wines tend to be, and Crowley allows the unspoken emotions on Aziraphale’s face to embolden him, leaning forward to press their mouths together.

Aziraphale’s lips part in surprise, just as Crowley had wanted, and he kisses him with wine and tongue, sharing the sharp liquid between them. Aziraphale makes a sound of surprise but holds Crowley close by the shoulder, welcoming the kiss and alcohol, which spills between them to stain their lips and drip off their chins.

‘Oh,’ Aziraphale breathes when Crowley relinquishes his mouth to kiss down over his chin and throat, meticulously licking the wine off his flushed skin. Scraping his teeth over his Adam’s apple and delighting in Aziraphale’s flustered gasp, Crowley kisses further down, coming to nose at the neckline of his toga. Aziraphale begins to squirm and Crowley leans back, noticing at last the prominent red stain on the otherwise pristine cloth.

‘Oh dear,’ Aziraphale sighs, looking down at his chest with furrowed brows.

Crowley feels slightly guilty for pulling that kissing stunt with the wine, but only just. Despite the sudden distraction, the way Aziraphale _responded_ to his kisses - a part of Crowley is nearly convinced he has been discorporated.

‘It will be a nightmare to get wine out of these,’ Aziraphale is saying, plucking at his neckline.

‘You can always miracle it away,’ Crowley points out, glad that his voice doesn’t break considering what they have just been doing.

‘Yes, but … I’ll always know it’s there, underneath,’ says Aziraphale. He looks at Crowley, blue eyes large and imploring and -

Aziraphale is a right bastard, Crowley thinks to himself with a surge of fondness. Lips twitching, he leans in to waft hot air over the Angel’s clavicle, triggering a miracle to remove the stain from his clothes.

‘Oh!’ Aziraphale shudders and Crowley, suppressing a pleased smirk, kisses his throat again. Removing his palm from the parapet, he finally wraps his arms around Aziraphale’s middle, hugging him close. Crowley dips his tongue into the hollow of his throat, sucking gently until the tang of wine disappears from his skin.

With a hum of pleasure, Aziraphale puts his free arm around Crowley’s shoulders, the empty goblet crushed between them. Crowley sways into him, pressing him up against the parapet again, only vaguely registering the distant _clang_ when Aziraphale’s hip knocks off the plate of food.

His mortification at his hardness coming into contact with Aziraphale then is only offset by the utter vindication at feeling Aziraphale just as aroused against him.

‘Crowley -!’ Aziraphale gasps, his voice breaking when their hips roll together.

Crowley can only kiss up his neck in response, his heart thundering with astonishment. He has hardly ever dared imagine that he’d get to feel Aziraphale like this, to feel this human, undeniable evidence that he is not alone in this. Aziraphale _wants_ him.

Aziraphale wants _him_.

Another roll of his hips and Aziraphale is trembling at the insistent grind of their cocks together, the touch sizzling even through the heavy layers of fabric between them.

‘Oh, Crowley, please,’ Aziraphale moans into his ear, fingers digging into Crowley’s back, ‘we … we really mustn’t …’

Crowley stills at once, the rush of blood turning to ice. He pulls away, breathing hard.

‘D’you want me to stop?’

‘I …’ Conflicting emotions flash across Aziraphale’s face. When he hesitates, Crowley begins to step away, loosening his hold.

‘’M sorry, I shouldn’t have -’

‘No!’ To Crowley’s surprise, Aziraphale pulls him in again, unceremoniously dropping his wine goblet. The metal clangs loudly on the stone.

Crowley waits, hope and fear warring within him.

Aziraphale glances around, blankly taking in the gardens behind and the imposing palace walls above. His eyes fix on the sky for a long moment before his jaw hardens, decision made.

Turning back to Crowley, he begins carefully, ‘It is your last night here…’

Crowley blinks. ‘Right.’

‘And …’ Aziraphale exhales slowly. ‘It is tradition for Romans to welcome the Winter Solstice, the new year with - with a kiss.’

‘Which we’ve already done, I s’pose,’ Crowley mumbles. He is certain Aziraphale is aware that he’d made that up, but the fact that he _welcomed_ it anyway -

‘And it is tradition for Romans to pay tribute to their deity of seed and sowing with a festival of … _liberation_.’

Crowley’s eyes widen. ‘Aziraphale.’

With care, Aziraphale reaches for his eyeglasses. He waits for Crowley to nod before lifting them off his nose, giving an inviting, if tentative, smile when their eyes properly meet for the first time tonight.

‘And as said before, when we’re among humans, it’s … prudent … to blend in.’

Crowley swallows, hardly believing his ears. ‘When in Rome,’ he mutters.

‘When in Rome…’ Aziraphale agrees, his voice almost a whisper. Setting aside the glasses - Crowley neither knows nor cares where - Aziraphale pulls him close, kissing him soundly on the mouth.

There is a certain pretence here, Crowley knows; a thin veil that Aziraphale is drawing over what they’re doing, using humans as an excuse. But his kiss is full of warmth and passion and urgency, and the emotions laid bare on his face speak to something deeper, something _more_ \- and Someone help Crowley if he is too weak to not take what is being offered.

The longer they kiss, the more inhibitions drop until they are clutching at each other, locked in a teetering push and pull of a dance, kissing long and deep with absolute abandon.

‘I’ve dreamed of this,’ Crowley gasps against Aziraphale’s lips, shuddering at the fiery sparks of pleasure as he moves their hips together. ‘I swear, every goddamn time I see you -’

‘Hush.’ Aziraphale silences Crowley with another kiss. Cradling his face in his hands, he murmurs, ‘I know, my dear. But,’ he gives a quiet shake of the head that lets Crowley know exactly what he’s thinking.

Right, of course. Crowley swallows. He’s known this, the fragility of their situation and the danger simmering underneath, but it doesn’t make it any easier to acknowledge.

He can’t bring down that wall though, for Aziraphale if not himself. He can’t take that away.

Focussing on the present and what is being given instead, Crowley asks, voice rough with need, ‘What do you want, angel? Tell me. What would you have me do?’

Aziraphale sighs, tilting his head when Crowley kisses along his jaw. ‘Exactly that, my dear - _have_ me.’

For a second, Crowley gapes, incredulous. But Aziraphale’s hands on his arse next moment return him to his senses - and then the Angel’s insistent tugging at Crowley’s synthesis, trying to push the robes out of the way, dispels all remaining doubts.

‘Heavens blessed, angel,’ Crowley groans. With a snap of his fingers, he vanishes the lower half of his ensemble, leaving only his garnet tunic on.

At once, Aziraphale yanks up the garment, eyes darkening at the sight of his erection.

‘That’s … impressive.’

Crowley snorts, jolted out of his arousal momentarily. ‘Thanks, I made it myself.’

Aziraphale’s startled laugh chokes off when Crowley grabs his toga by the handful, heaving up the voluminous folds to bunch it up around Aziraphale’s hips. His cock, Crowley is overjoyed to find, is pleasingly thick and just as hard as his own.

‘Crowley -’

‘Nice prick yourself.’

‘Crowley!’ Aziraphale exclaims, half scolding and half chuckling as Crowley wraps his arm around his middle, urging the Angel up onto the parapet. Aziraphale shudders at the feel of cool stone on his arse.

‘It’s cold!’

‘I’mma warm you right up,’ Crowley says huskily, giving him a searing kiss as he slides a hand down a naked leg.

With a groan, Crowley rasps, ‘Put those sweet thighs around me, angel, _fuck_.’ He pulls Aziraphale in by the hips, until only the curve of his arse is resting on the edge of the parapet.

Aziraphale grabs him around the shoulders for balance as Crowley settles between his thighs, the precarious position angling the Angel backward, with nothing behind but the sheer drop to the palace gardens. He quickly swings his legs around Crowley’s hips, clinging close.

‘Oh, look at these,’ Crowley hums, splaying his fingers as he massages Aziraphale’s thighs with both hands, adoring the give of the soft flesh. ‘If you only knew the unholy thoughts they inspire…’

‘Charming, but my dear,’ Aziraphale says, glancing over his shoulder, ‘this is a bit -!’

Crowley winds an arm around Aziraphale’s waist, supporting him. ‘I’ve got you, I won’t let you fall.’ Their eyes meet and Crowley feels that shift in the wind again. He repeats, almost harshly, ‘I won’t let you _fall_ , angel.’

Aziraphale’s expression is unreadable. ‘I know you won’t,’ he murmurs, cupping Crowley’s cheek almost tenderly.

Then he is drawing Crowley down into another kiss, wet and heated, and if that alone weren’t enough to scramble Crowley’s thoughts, Aziraphale slips a hand between them, taking hold of him firmly.

‘Fuck,’ Crowley hisses into Aziraphale’s mouth as warm fingers stroke his cock, experimental at first and then sure.

It’s surprisingly soft, Aziraphale’s hand, considering the strength Crowley knows he possesses. But even as Aziraphale gains confidence learning what Crowley likes, his touch remains delicate, reverent almost. He touches Crowley right where he aches most with heartrending sensitivity, like Crowley is something to be savoured and cherished.

Kissing him fiercely, Crowley reaches between them as well. The Angel’s cock is leaking already, beads of precum dribbling down. Aziraphale moans throatily when Crowley thumbs at his head, teasing for a few agonising seconds before gripping him fully.

‘Oh, hell,’ Crowley hisses. Aziraphale is heavy in his palm; the length of him is nice enough but it his girth that makes Crowley giddy, imagining the stretch if he were to take this beautiful cock inside him.

One day, Crowley thinks, hopes, as he steadily rubs Aziraphale’s precum over him, loving the glide of slick skin under his fingers. For tonight, Aziraphale has made a specific request and Crowley will see to it, thoroughly.

‘Wear one often, do ya?’ He can’t help asking, curiosity getting the better of him.

‘Not - not very often,’ Aziraphale admits, breathing heavily. ‘But it’s rather necessary here. I do enjoy the bathhouses.’

Crowley chuckles, not surprised. ‘Woe on me, then,’ he grunts, pushing in until he can take both their cocks in hand, making Aziraphale whimper. ‘Didn’t care much for the baths. I should’ve gone everyday.’

‘Why, you lecherous thing,’ Aziraphale pants, joining Crowley in stroking them together. He moans when Crowley bucks into their fists, rubbing his prick harder on Aziraphale’s.

‘Part and parcel, some would say.’

‘Oh, hush,’ Aziraphale says, fumbling for another kiss.

Crowley’s cock is weeping by the time he realises Aziraphale’s hand is no longer on them. Breaking away with a nip at his lower lip, Crowley looks down - and nearly discorporates upon seeing what the Angel is occupied with.

‘You were taking too long,’ Aziraphale says, half-complaining, a touch of amusement on his face at Crowley’s expression. ‘I figured I might as well,’ he sighs with pleasure, ‘take things … into my own hands…’

‘Fucking heaven,’ Crowley croaks.

Aziraphale is, indeed, taking matters into his own hand - his very slick, very skilled hand that presently has two fingers probing inside himself. Holding tight to Crowley with his free hand, Aziraphale rhythmically moves the other; Crowley gapes, mouth dry, as the furled muscle of his rim gives way to the oiled fingers, stretching obscenely as Aziraphale fucks himself open.

‘You could help, you know,’ Aziraphale says, panting a little. ‘Would expedite the proceedings.’

‘Wow. Pray to the Lord with _that_ mouth, do ya?’ Crowley deadpans, still flushed.

They break into breathless chuckles, Aziraphale scolding him softly. Stealing a kiss, Crowley reaches down to stroke where Aziraphale’s fingers are buried in him. Teasing at his entrance, Crowley slicks up his fingers and carefully pushes in with one, breathing out sharply at the heat of him.

Aziraphale cries out plaintively at the added intrusion, and Crowley plants soothing kisses on his mouth.

‘All right?’

‘Yes. Give me more.’

‘Angel -’

‘I won’t break, Crowley, and I can’t wait.’ Aziraphale looks desperately at him. ‘I need you.’

Blessing under his breath, Crowley obliges, carefully wiggling another finger inside. He blows out a breath, murmuring, ‘Whoo-ee’; the sight of Aziraphale stretched around their four fingers, plunging in and out of him in a hypnotic rhythm, is utterly enticing. Crowley can keep looking forever.

‘My dear,’ Aziraphale says, breath hitching, ‘please … I’m getting close.’

‘Angel -’

‘Have me, now,’ Aziraphale moans. ‘Please, Crowley, I -! I need you!’

With a low hiss, Crowley slips out his fingers, fumbling to ruck up his tunic and slick up his prick. It’s not fair, he thinks, for Aziraphale to say such things to him; he wants to hear Aziraphale say it again and again for the rest of his existence.

‘Crowley!’ Aziraphale cries, a plea and a demand at the same time.

‘I’ve got you,’ Crowley whispers, holding Aziraphale close as he leans him over the parapet, rolling his hips to press his cock into him.

Aziraphale’s head lolls back, exposing the gorgeous arc of his pale throat as Crowley pushes inside. The heat from the moment his head pops in is nearly too much, and Crowley stills, gritting his teeth to gather himself. Aziraphale is so gorgeous like this, pliant with trust in his arms, and utterly scorching and tight inside. Every inch of the slick heat that envelopes him leaves Crowley panting for breath, willing his cock to behave until he is bottomed out, pelvis flush against Aziraphale’s arse.

The Angel still has his eyes closed, head hanging back and legs quivering around Crowley’s hips. Crowley grabs him under one thigh, rubbing comforting circles over the skin swiftly gathering sweat as he waits for Aziraphale to relax.

Or maybe it is too much and Aziraphale doesn’t want it anymore -

‘Unh.’ Aziraphale rocks against him, only a slight movement thanks to the restrictions of his position, but it sends fire flaring through Crowley. ‘Move, my dear, I -!’

Crowley doesn’t need telling twice. Slowly pulling out, he thrusts in gently, swearing at the hot clutch of Aziraphale’s body around his own. He is still deliriously tight, but his supple walls yield to the thrust of Crowley’s cock inside him, hot and snug and -

‘Fucking perfect,’ Crowley grunts, clutching Aziraphale closer as he snaps his hips, picking up the rhythm between them. ‘You’re so stupidly, utterly perfect. D’you know that?’

Aziraphale opens his eyes, looking up with an innocence that makes him look positively debauched, writhing on Crowley’s cock.

‘Fucking illegal is what you are,’ Crowley pants, leaning down to suck kisses on Aziraphale’s neck. ‘Impossible.’

Aziraphale’s only reply is a whisper of, ‘Harder!’, lust roiling in his voice.

It is not in Crowley’s power to deny him anything. He does as he is bid, fucking into Aziraphale hard and deep, and slapping his jiggling arse until the Angel is jostling on the parapet with each thrust. Every movement appears to nearly push him off the edge, but no, Crowley will keep his word. He won’t let Aziraphale fall.

For an Angel surely can’t fall, Crowley dares to think, if he is being cherished and taken care of.

If he is being made love to - even if his lover is one already fallen from grace.

‘Crowley!’ Aziraphale almost sobs right then, clutching at him. ‘Oh, right - right _there_ , my - _ohh_! Oh, yesss …! L-like that -!’

Crowley clenches his jaw against all the words he cannot speak out loud; but speak them he does, in the way he worships Aziraphale’s body, grinding into that sweet spot that makes him cry out for Crowley so beautifully; and speak them he does, in the trail of his lips over Aziraphale’s neck and face, ending the journey with a slow kiss to his mouth, drinking in the sounds of his pleasure.

Sensing Aziraphale growing close, Crowley murmurs, ‘You uncomfortable, angel? D’you want to turn arou -?’

‘No!’ Aziraphale gasps. ‘No, just like this!’ And he buries his face in Crowley’s neck, helpless to do anything else but hold on as Crowley fucks him over the edge.

‘Liberation,’ Crowley breathes in his ear, his voice breaking with arousal. ‘They celebrate liberation and pray for the return of light after the solstice. Lucky me,’ Crowley looks Aziraphale in the eye, his heart pounding, ‘to always be liberated in your company, and you are light enough to chase away every darkness.’

Aziraphale’s eyes widen, lips parting in a shocked ‘O’ - and then wings, white and blinding, burst forth from his back, seeming almost luminous against the moon.

Awestruck, Crowley stares at his majestic plumage. Aziraphale pulses around him, and with a helpless groan, Crowley spills inside him, his vision filled with white in every sense.

As they come down together, Aziraphale still cradled close to him, it dawns on Crowley what just happened and he blushes.

‘Aziraphale, I …’ he looks down at where his spend is dripping out of the Angel. ‘I should’ve asked, I’m -’

‘I don’t mind,’ Aziraphale says quietly. His wings are still aloft and he carefully brings them down, folding over his back.

Crowley stares again. ‘Did you just -?’

Footsteps sound out from behind them right then, and in unison, Crowley and Aziraphale turn to face the shadowy doorway. Aziraphale hastily puts away his wings, to Crowley’s resounding disappointment, and slips off the parapet, yanking down his toga to cover himself. Crowley doesn’t bother, standing half-naked in front of Aziraphale as a tall figure emerges onto the balcony.

‘What are you doing here?’ It is one of the Praetorian guards, his voice deep and threatening. ‘This wing of the palace is closed -’

‘What does it look like,’ Crowley drawls, smirking when the guard’s eyes fall to his cock. ‘We’re ringing in the new year.’

‘You -!’

‘ _Fuck off_.’ It is not a suggestion.

Falling silent, the guard turns around and leaves without another word.

Aziraphale sighs. ‘Was that necessary?’

‘He nearly ruined a perfect orgasm,’ says Crowley, biting back a smile at the look on Aziraphale’s face. ‘Well, he ain’t getting any tonight. Or for the rest of the month.’

‘Crowley,’ Aziraphale says, gently chiding. As Crowley sets about miracling on the rest of his synthesis, Aziraphale asks uncertainly, ‘Did he see my wings, do you think?’

Crowley snaps his fingers. ‘If he did, he won’t remember.’

‘Oh. Oh, thank you.’ Aziraphale visibly relaxes. But then his eyes dart over the balcony to the gardens and he blanches. ‘Oh my.’

Raising an eyebrow, Crowley approaches the parapet. He gives a low whistle.

The palace slaves that had been drinking and playing dice in their little nooks about the garden, are now engaged in activities of a far more salacious nature. Closest to the balcony are a couple of men, huddled together by one of the pools and kissing quite ferociously.

Crowley clears his throat, realising that he must have been emitting certain temptations this whole time.

Aziraphale is blushing beside him. ‘I’d forgot there were people out there.’

‘It doesn’t really matter,’ Crowley says bracingly. ‘Drunken debauchery during Saturnalia and all that.’

‘Yes, well -’

‘And it looks like we’ve rather inspired them.’

‘Crowley!’ Aziraphale bites his lower lip. ‘What if _they’d_ seen my wings?’

‘This lot? Ehh, come morning, they’ll be too hungover to remember who they shagged even.’

Aziraphale looks at him quickly then, and Crowley feels his face heat up. ‘Not that I would -’

‘No…’

There is a moment of awkward silence. Crowley remembers the feel of Aziraphale in his arms, how vulnerable and tender he’d been then, and wants to kiss him.

‘Will you be leaving for Egypt now?’ Aziraphale asks quietly.

It takes Crowley a moment to recall anything that happened before he’d first kissed Aziraphale tonight. ‘Ah! Right. Yes,’ he mutters, with genuine loathing at the thought of saying goodbye now. ‘I should … I’m meant to be there within a few days and it’s a long journey -’

‘Indeed.’

They look at each other for a long moment. The shutters are down in Aziraphale’s eyes again.

Crowley sighs. ‘I’ll see you around, angel.’ He tries not to imagine when that might be, however many years it might take before their assignments lead them to cross paths again.

He is stepping away when Aziraphale suddenly says, reaching out a hand, ‘Wait, Crowley -!’

Pausing, Crowley looks back at the Angel, hopeful.

His cheeks pinking in that lovely glow again, Aziraphale waves a hand, manifesting two small items. He holds them out to Crowley.

‘For you, my dear.’

Curious, Crowley accepts them. One is a _cerei_ , a long tapering wax candle, and the other is … Crowley blinks in surprise. A _sigillaria_ , he realises, except this earthenware figurine is not in the likeness of Roman deities or a common animal, but a small intricately looped snake.

Crowley looks up, eyebrows raised in question.

Aziraphale fiddles with the brooch on his toga. ‘About tradition … it is common practice during the festival to, well,’ Aziraphale waves a hand vaguely, ‘exchange gifts like these.’

‘Angel…’

‘Thank you for the dates and figs. They were wonderful.’

His throat clogs up for a bit, words evading him as the significance of Aziraphale’s gifts becomes clear. Swallowing, Crowley says, trying for nonchalance, ‘You didn’t miracle them out from under some unsuspecting vendor’s nose, did you.’

‘I _bought_ them earlier,’ Aziraphale huffs, some of his old snippiness returning to his voice. ‘They were in my domus.’

Crowley looks down at the small terracotta figurine. ‘Of everything, why did you get a snake?’

Aziraphale doesn’t reply but he doesn’t look away, either.

Oh.

‘Tell you what,’ Crowley says, stepping forward. He holds up the candle. ‘I’ll take your light with me’, he smiles at Aziraphale’s soft blush, ‘but as for this’, Crowley presses the snake figurine into Aziraphale’s hand, ‘why don’t you hold on to that for me until … next year?’

From the way Aziraphale gapes at him, Crowley knows his meaning is understood. The Angel looks down at the terracotta piece, hesitating. Crowley’s heart almost hammers out of his chest, but then,

‘Yes. Until next year, my dear.’

Aziraphale offers a smile then, small and shy, and Crowley’s blood sings in his veins.

Walking forward, Crowley says, ‘I look forward to this new year.’ He leans in, and when Aziraphale widens his eyes but doesn’t back away, steals a final sweet kiss. For now.

‘It’s already begun with a good omen.’

**Author's Note:**

> I assume they find an excuse to bang every year afterwards
> 
> A few notes:   
> \- Generally, the Festival of Saturnalia was celebrated for seven days from December 17 - 23 (and the Winter Solstice/New Year fell on December 25), but during Caligula's reign, which is when Crowley and Aziraphale met in Rome, he declared only a 5-day festival.  
> \- Later, of course, New Year's Eve falls on December 31 (do Crowley and Aziraphale find a reason to snog on both days then? wHY NOT)  
> \- Synthesis were stylish dinner clothes, and Romans were allowed to wear them publicly out in the day during the festival days only. They were lighter and less cumbersome than togas. Ofc Crowley is on top of his fashion game
> 
> If you have any more questions about Saturnalia and don't feel like Googling, feel free to ask lol I had like 12 tabs open while writing this.
> 
> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it! Make my day with a comment or some scream at me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/RV_Phoenix_Soar) and [Tumblr](https://phoenix-soar.tumblr.com)
> 
> More of my Ineffable Husbands fics [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works?utf8=%E2%9C%93&commit=Sort+and+Filter&work_search%5Bsort_column%5D=revised_at&include_work_search%5Brelationship_ids%5D%5B%5D=575567&work_search%5Bother_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bexcluded_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bcrossover%5D=&work_search%5Bcomplete%5D=&work_search%5Bwords_from%5D=&work_search%5Bwords_to%5D=&work_search%5Bdate_from%5D=&work_search%5Bdate_to%5D=&work_search%5Bquery%5D=&work_search%5Blanguage_id%5D=&user_id=Phoenix_Soar)


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